


The Defective Death Eater

by EmilineHarris



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-21
Updated: 2020-01-21
Packaged: 2021-02-25 06:01:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22351366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmilineHarris/pseuds/EmilineHarris
Summary: Draco Malfoy slowly realizes that, despite his breeding, he may not be a very good Death Eater.
Kudos: 10





	The Defective Death Eater

**THE DEFECTIVE DEATH EATER**

.

_Defective (adjective):_  
_Having a fault or flaw; not perfect or complete_

.

* * *

.

**JUNE 1997**

“Severus … Please …”

The green light was so bright that he had to squint his eyes, but he could still see everything.

The Death Eaters emerging from the shadows around him.

The Headmaster, as if in slow motion, tipping backwards over the Astronomy Tower’s railing, his robes flapping around him like some strange bird.

Professor Snape to his right, looking grim as always, but no worse for wear after just casting a _killing_ _curse_ on someone.

Then he felt the hand on his shoulder—the Professor’s—grab him roughly and spin him around on his heel, leading him back toward the stairway and toward their escape.

He had accomplished most of his mission. The Vanishing Cabinet had worked perfectly—even the man he’d been sent to kill had been impressed with that part of his plan.

The rest? He really didn’t want to think about that.

His mind was a jumble of activity, trying to make sense of current events and those that had happened only moments before. He had disarmed Dumbledore easily—it hadn’t even been a challenge—but he hadn’t been able to do much more than that. The old bat had tried to stop him, to reason with him—as he knew he would—but there had been genuine concern in his voice that he hadn’t expected.

_Draco, you are not a killer._

_I wonder whether your heart has really been in it …_

_I don’t think you will kill me._

If _you were going to kill me, you would have done it …_

_I can help you, Draco._

_You are not a killer …_

Dumbledore spoke with such authority. Like he could see inside his brain. Like he somehow _knew_ …

“You’re wrong! I am a killer!”Draco had wanted to shout.

Or, rather, he _could_ be a killer if he had wanted to be …

Maybe.

He had struggled all year with that thought—even cried in the lavatory about it on multiple occasions—his need for self-preservation and the safety of his family the only things urging him along. He _had_ followed through on a couple assassination attempts, as indirect as they were. Surely, that had to count for something.

But here he was, nearly running alongside Professor Snape through the dimly lit hallways of Hogwarts. Curses were being cast around him and exploding off the walls, and yet no part of him wanted to join in the fray. The fray that _he_ had made possible. So, he kept his head down and kept moving, lest he somehow get drawn in.

The uncertainty that he’d felt all year had reached its pinnacle. He didn’t know whether to feel relieved that his mission was over or scared at what could happen next with the “other side” weakened. He didn’t know whether to feel elated that the Dark Lord wouldn’t be looking to kill him or his family—at least for the time being—or to feel sad that the Headmaster was dead. 

He didn’t know how to feel about _anything_ anymore, and it was tying his stomach in knots.

Things used to be so simple—purebloods were superior and mudbloods were trash—but now the line between right and wrong had blurred, and all the things that he had known to be true danced in that murky grey area, as well.

Maybe the stress of the entire year had been too much.

Maybe this was what losing your mind felt like.

He didn’t like it one bit.

As soon as they hit the night air, the Death Eaters broke into a sprint and he followed. He ignored the chaos behind him, continuing forward even when Professor Snape was caught up in a momentary duel with Harry Potter. 

When he hit the edge of the property, he turned back toward Hogwarts to scan the scene. Hagrid’s hut was burning, but the castle appeared quiet and still, the green light of the Dark Mark in the sky reflecting off its stone walls and reminding him of the spell Professor Snape had cast earlier. It would only be a matter of time before those inside learned what had taken place.

And most of them would hate him for it.

He gathered a deep but shaky breath and apparated into the night.

.

* * *

.

**SEPTEMBER 1988**

The roar of the fireplace announced his father’s arrival. 

Lucius Malfoy had been out for much of the morning, getting a first look at some new dark artifacts that been brought to Borgin and Burke’s. If he liked what he saw, he’d undoubtedly have something new to add to his vast collection.

Draco tried to look nonchalant as he lingered in the hallway, waiting for his father to exit the room. Most days, his father’s prized possessions were strictly off limits, but sometimes—after trips like these—he’d be in a good mood and let his only son have a look.

“Good morning,” Draco said as his father appeared in the hall. He eyed the bundle in his arms, wrapped tightly with parchment and tied with a string. “It looks like your trip today was worth it.”

“Ah, yes, Draco,” Lucius addressed him. “Would you like to see what I picked up?”

“Yes, father” Draco replied, trying not to sound too enthusiastic as he followed him down the hall.

His father’s study where the artifacts were kept was in a less used part of the Manor and he followed him eagerly, nearly running behind on his short legs to keep up. When they came to the closed door at the far end of a dark corridor, his father pulled his wand from the pocket of his robes and held it against the wood. He muttered some incantation that Draco couldn’t hear, and the door swung inward, allowing them inside.

“ _Incendio_ ,” his father called out, lighting the candles in the candelabra that hung overhead and illuminating the room and its contents. 

Draco took it all in, mouth agape, not sure where to focus his steely grey gaze. There were objects of varying shapes and sizes everywhere—in glass display cases, on shelves, and even hanging directly on the walls—and they looked alive in the flickering light, the random shadows covering them and then receding unexpectedly.

He watched as his father strode purposefully across the room and over to a large mahogany desk on the far side. He placed the package he’d been carrying down and motioned for Draco to follow. Draco was next to him in an instant, impatiently learning forward to get a closer look, until he was abruptly stopped by his father’s outstretched arm.

“That is close enough,” Lucius hissed. “Don’t touch _anything_.”

Draco nodded silently, his eyes wide as he watched his father untie the string and peel back the paper, revealing the object underneath. Although it was new to them, he could tell that the silver box was ancient with runes etched into the side and a coiled snake with glistening emerald eyes on the lid. He found himself amazed that such an ordinary looking object contained dark magic, and he watched as his father used his wand to levitate the box into an open space on one of the high shelves.

“It once held cursed jewelry,” his father stated matter-of-factly.

Draco nodded again, his eyes drifting down to a silver mask that hung below the shelf the box was now perched on. His father seemed to notice and plucked it down from the wall, turning it over in his hands. “This mask isn’t cursed,” he said, seeing the surprised expression on his son’s face as he handled the mask directly. “This has always been mine, actually. Would you like to hold it?”

Knowing that touching anything in the room was expressly forbidden under most circumstances, Draco quickly reached out before his father could change his mind. The silver surface felt smooth and cold. “What is it for?” He asked.

“It’s my Death Eater mask,” his father explained. “From when the Dark Lord was rising to power, many years ago.”

Draco nodded. His parents had told him the stories since before he’d been able to fully understand, and he’d always wondered if he’d ever have the chance to experience something similar—to make the world better for pureblooded wizards again. 

It all sounded so exciting.

“Maybe one day, another more powerful wizard will take up his cause and we can assist in his efforts together,” Lucius said with a smile, practically reading his son’s mind.

“Yes, of course,” Draco smiled, too, as he held the mask up to his face and looked through the eye holes, imagining what it might be like to be a Death Eater like his father had been. “Will you teach me all about dark magic?”

His father chuckled. “In a few more years, once you turn eleven,” he said. “And, hopefully, I can convince your mother that you should go to Durmstrang Institute where they teach the Dark Arts as part of the curriculum. One of my old Death Eater colleagues is currently Headmaster … As a Malfoy, you’d have no trouble getting in.”

Draco liked the sound of that.

He took one last look at the mask and then handed it back to his father.

 _One day_ , he thought expectantly. _One day._

.

* * *

.

**JULY 1997**

The taste of bile was still fresh in his mouth as he studied his reflection in the bathroom mirror.

No, he didn’t look any different, but he knew that being a Death Eater was taking its toll on him. Despite what he had been told from a very young age, it didn’t appear that he was cut out for this sort of thing.

_Maybe there was something wrong with him._

When it all started, he’d been so excited by the limitless possibilities. He’d felt powerful and in control for the first time in a long time … Like he was about to make a difference and be a part of something great.

Now, he just felt perpetually sick to his stomach and scared.

The Dark Lord had been a fixture in his family home for the better part of the summer. While his parents didn’t seem to mind much, it made him feel uneasy and more like a prisoner than the man of the house. 

He hated coming downstairs in the mornings and ending up face-to-face with people that despised his father for his weakness and him for his inability to kill one of the most powerful wizards the world had ever seen. He hated that actual monsters like Fenrir Greyback, who spoke openly about enjoying the taste of pureblood children (like himself!), had unrestricted access to the Manor and could just show up whenever they pleased. He hated that, in the stillness of the night, he had started to hear terrified screams coming from the dungeons beneath the house—they were interrupting his sleep, and that certainly wasn’t helping his current mental state!

But, most of all, he hated that the Dark Lord was always there.

It was intimidating as hell. 

At any moment he might be called upon to do something … To complete another mission. He might be asked to torture—or worse— _kill_ someone, just to prove that, this time, he could follow through without another wizard bailing him out. To prove that he was a serious Death Eater, just like the rest of them. That he had what it took to get the job done.

He closed his eyes and let out a feeble sigh.

Seeing the Muggle Studies professor killed in his family’s dining room merely hours before had been more than he could handle, and he was having a hard time figuring out _why_.

Surely, he didn’t care about _muggles_.

And he’d never taken her class or paid _her_ much attention.

But now, he’d never forget her name …

Charity Burbage.

Professor Dumbledore had pleaded with Professor Snape before his demise, as well, but her futile attempts had been so much worse … More akin to the agonized sounds he heard coming from the dungeons. He’d be hearing her voice in his nightmares—of that he was certain.

As soon as the meeting had ended and most of the Death Eaters had left, he’d excused himself from his parents and the Dark Lord and headed quickly toward his bedroom. He was surprised that he’d been able to contain his emotions up to that point—he’d fallen out of his chair when the killing curse had been cast and had to look away when the snake started consuming her whole, but other than that, he thought he’d handled it fairly well. 

At least he hadn’t _cried_ on the spot, which was a small victory in and of itself. 

But, away from the dining room and its lingering stench of death, it was all starting to catch up with him in a great rush. Suddenly, his stomach had felt more knotted and twisted than it had ever felt before, its contents roiling uncontrollably. So, when he passed the main bathroom on his way to his destination, he had all but thrown himself inside.

He wished he could say that vomiting had made him feel better, but it offered no relief.

The traumatized face staring back at him in the mirror only reinforced this point.

What was _wrong_ with him?

He thought that he was stronger than this!

Seeing that mudblood professor killed in front of him shouldn’t have been so horrifying!

What did he care?

“Pull yourself together,” he hissed at his pathetic reflection. “You’re embarrassing yourself!”

Straightening himself up and drawing in a confident breath, Draco exited the bathroom and continued toward his bedroom at the end of the hallway. His footsteps echoed off the walls as he walked, breaking into the eerie stillness that had enveloped the Manor over the recent months. Although it had never been a _cheery_ place, it had had always been home—now the quiet just felt unnatural and foreboding.

Once across the threshold of his bedroom, he flicked his wand at the door, closing and locking it behind him. He kicked off his shoes, not even bothering to carefully arrange them next to the door—as was his traditional routine—and he crossed the room, falling roughly onto his bed. Staring up at the ceiling, he absently twirled his wand around with his slender fingers. He tried desperately to slow his panicked breathing and think about something other than what was plaguing his mind.

When he quickly realized that he couldn’t—the images of the day’s events rushing back to him in a sinister wave—he could feel that familiar unease in his stomach starting up again.

“Fuck!” He shouted as loudly as he could, uncertain if he was angry with his body for betraying him, or for being thrust into this situation because of his last name. 

Although it felt good to yell, he didn’t like the way his voice wavered, ever so slightly.

_Damn it._

Despite his best efforts at trying to reason it out—to maintain some level of cold, calculated, composure—he was having a hard time. 

None of it made sense anymore.

He sat up abruptly, dangling his legs over the edge of the bed, set his wand down next to him, and put his head in his hands so that he could massage his throbbing temples. 

He thought bitterly about how he hated everything.

How his life had devolved into— _this_. Whatever _this_ was. He wasn’t even sure what to call his day-to-day existence anymore. Most days, he was in isolation and hanging on by the thinnest of threads.

Hopefully, things would improve once he returned to Hogwarts for his seventh year. For Merlin’s sake, they _had_ to improve. They certainly couldn’t be any worse than what he was experiencing at home. 

_Holy shit, what was wrong with him?_

He’d hated Hogwarts last year, and now he was yearning for it?

He was falling apart at the seams.

Was he going mad? He felt like he might be.

Quickly grabbing his wand and raising it toward the door, he cast a silencing spell so that no one would hear him as his strangled sobs came retching to the surface.

.

* * *

.

**NOVEMBER 1997**

The four Slytherins huddled around a table in the corner of the library, multiple books and parchments littering its surface. They had been tasked with researching the invention and evolution of the Cruciatus curse—and then testing it out on at least two students—for their Dark Arts course. 

“So, who’s going to be on the receiving end?” Theodore Nott asked, looking thoughtfully at the group and away from the notes that he was dutifully copying with his quill.

“Don’t look at me,” Draco grumbled.

The two boys turned their attention to Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle who were absently flipping through the pages of the dusty old books in front of them, oblivious to the conversation.

“I suppose we can worry about that part later,” Draco said to Theo with a casual flip of his hand when the other two hadn’t noticed they’d been at the center of attention. “Maybe we can sneak up on some Gryffindors and spare ourselves the trouble of cursing each other.”

Theo nodded and went back to the notes he was taking. 

So far, the group had a pretty good jump on the written part of the assignment, and with Professor Carrow leading the class, Draco knew that their work wouldn’t really be scrutinized. The new Dark Arts professor had been unequivocally easy on all the Slytherins up to this point ... So long as they turned _something_ in, they’d have no trouble earning full credit.

“It’s too bad we haven’t been learning this all along,” Crabbe spoke up, looking up from his book. “Learning the spells themselves, rather than just how to defend them, is much more useful.”

“It certainly is … And if I’d been sent to Durmstrang like my father intended, I would already know all of this,” Draco said, his voice dripping with contempt.

“Better late than never?” Theo shrugged.

“Even if they’ve taught the Dark Arts all along, Durmstrang’s not so great,” Goyle said quietly, looking to Draco. “You remember their Headmaster? Karkaroff, I think it was? My father told me that he was defective, so the Dark Lord had him killed.”

There was a moment of quiet before Theo erupted in laughter. “You bloody idiot! He wasn’t _defective_. He _defected_! You sure are thick … Did you hear what he said, Draco? _Defective_! Ridiculous!”

Draco forced a smile in Theo’s direction. “Yes. Ridiculous,” he agreed. 

But something about Goyle’s choice of word— _defective_ —sounded right in his head. He certainly hadn’t _defected_ from the Dark Lord, but he had been mostly _defective_ from his very first mission. No one would argue that he wasn’t cut out for the job. 

He had proven himself to be a lousy Death Eater.

“Let’s wrap up here and head to the Great Hall for some supper,” Draco changed the subject. 

If he thought too much about his role in this Second Wizarding War, he started to have a hard time wrapping his head around everything. Some things—like agreeing that his pureblood status set him apart from wizards without a similar parentage—still came easily, but other things were becoming increasingly more difficult for him to stomach and fully get behind. Even using the Cruciatus curse on Gryffindors for their current project, as he had suggested to Nott, didn’t bring about the same joy it once would have.

Something had changed.

Karkaroff hadn’t been defective, as Goyle had astutely (albeit incorrectly) pointed out.

 _He_ was the defective one.

As humbling as the realization was, it made Draco feel a little bit better. It helped to explain all of inconsistencies he’d been struggling with since the culmination of his little mission during sixth year, and why being in the Dark Lord’s presence had felt more terrifying than anything else. 

He was fundamentally flawed … It wasn’t his fault. At least he had _tried_.

The boys continued their research on the Cruciatus curse for a while longer, then spelled the books to the shelves and their parchments to a neat pile. Gathering the papers up and putting them into his bag, Draco led his group out of the library to toward the Great Hall.

At least he could still do that properly.

.

* * *

.

**AUGUST 1990**

“He’s weak.”

“Don’t be silly, Lucius. He’s just a _child_.”

The voices floated from the lounge, into the hallway, and up the main staircase. 

It was late and he wasn’t supposed to be out of his bedroom, but the storm outside was raging and the wind sounded like a werewolf that was going to break through the walls of the Manor at any moment. He had tried to be brave, as his mother had suggested when she tucked him in for the night, but it was impossible to fall asleep and his resolve was fading.

“Storms shouldn’t scare a ten-year-old, Narcissa. What will happen next year when he’s away at school? When we aren’t around? I don’t want the other children to mock him.”

“He’ll be fine. He’s a Malfoy—and a Black. He’ll grow into his greatness.”

“You’re too easy on him, sometimes.”

“I’m his mother! How would you prefer I treat him?”

“I don’t know … I just wish you wouldn’t _baby_ him so much.”

“Oh, Lucius! I know that your concern is coming from a good place, but he needs to feel supported by both his mother _and_ his father. And—before you protest—being supportive is not the same as babying.”

“It’s a fine line.”

“Not as fine as you like to think. You could learn a thing or two about being less demanding and more supportive. He needs to be able to come to you, too, you know … _Especially_ if he is afraid.”

“He’s all that we have—the continuation of the proud Malfoy line—so he _needs_ to be great. There is no room for fear or hesitation. I won’t stand for anything less.”

“And we won’t get anything less … Just give him a chance to _grow_. He’ll prove himself to you.”

There was a pause in the conversation, and Draco peered through the bannisters of the staircase toward the open door. Suddenly, his mother was there, standing in the doorframe, silhouetted against the light from inside the room. Despite trying to make himself as small as possible, he knew that she had seen him.

“Well, I’m going to get ready for bed,” she said, turning back toward the lounge to address his father. “Join me soon?”

“Yes. I’ll be up before too long.”

“I’ll see you in bed, then.”

Narcissa approached Draco on the staircase and offered him her hand. “Is the storm still bothering you?” She whispered.

“Yes, mother,” he replied, sheepishly. “I tried to be brave … Like you said.”

“Don’t worry about it, my darling. I know that you will be brave when it matters most.”

She gave his hand a gentle squeeze and led him back to his bedroom. Then she tucked him in for the second time that night and cast a silencing spell so he wouldn’t hear the storm outside.

.

* * *

.

**APRIL 1998**

Draco could hear them shouting at each other through the wall of the lounge and it made his already aching head hurt.

“We should have summoned the Dark Lord!” His Aunt Bellatrix hissed angrily.

“Yes, but by the time we _knew_ it was the Potter boy, it was too late,” his mother protested.

“Cissy, you know that _he_ won’t be happy about this … The punishment will be severe. Your disgrace of a son has failed us again!”

“He wasn’t confident in making an identification—I’d hardly call that a failure! You saw the boy’s face ... Could _you_ tell with complete certainty that it was him?”

“But the others—Potter’s friends—Draco recognized them! Wouldn’t that stand to reason that the third had to be Potter?!”

He wished that he could cast a silencing spell to drown out the noise, but since his wand had been taken in the scuffle, it wasn’t an option. He appreciated that his mother was unabashedly taking his side—the Malfoys were serious in their loyalty to each other—even though he knew that his deranged aunt was undeniably correct.

He most definitely had recognized Granger and Weasley—there was no mistaking their ugly faces—so, it _did_ stand to reason that the disfigured boy was Potter.

In fact, even if his father hadn’t forced him to get up close and look into those distinctive green eyes, he knew it had to be him—the three insufferable Gryffindors were always together. He was hard pressed to remember a time when they weren’t conjoined at the hip.

Yes, he had known it was Harry Potter.

He could have easily confirmed what everyone in the room already suspected.

He could have brought his father and family back into the Dark Lord’s good graces.

He could have ended the bloody war! 

But he’d lied. 

Or, rather, he’d withheld the truth … Was that the same thing?

After what he had already seen—what he had _experienced_ during his time with the Death Eaters—he just couldn’t, in good conscience, bring himself to expose Potter. 

For one thing, he wasn’t sure he’d particularly like living in a world led by Lord Voldemort. The Manor hadn’t felt like _home_ since he’d taken residence there, and his father, a formerly proud pureblood, was a mere shell of the man he used to be. 

Was this new reality really any better than the one he’d grown up in?

It certainly was a far cry from the days where his biggest worry was if Slytherin would earn enough points to win the House Cup! 

Things had been so simple … 

How could he overlook something so obvious?

How could he have been so stupid?

It may have taken a while, but he had come around … He had slowly come to the realization that things were better before.

So, as much as he loathed the other boy, he didn’t want to shoulder the responsibility of turning Potter over, knowing full well what it would lead to. Watching from across the room as his Aunt Bellatrix interrogated—tortured—Granger had been bad enough … There was no way that he could have silently stood by, unflinching, as Lord Voldemort relished in killing his rival.

He was a bully, not a sadistic bastard.

Draco sighed and leaned back into the armchair as the shouting continued through the wall.

“I always knew you lot weren’t as dedicated as the rest of us!”

“Now you’re just spouting nonsense,” his mother’s tone was haughty. 

He could hear shuffling and the slam of a door as one of the women removed herself from the conversation—he guessed his mother. He knew he was right when she appeared in the lounge, approaching him in his chair to get a closer look at his face.

“The healing spell seems to be working,” she commented, running a gentle hand across his cheek where the shards from the fallen chandelier had cut him. “And don’t mind anything your Aunt Bellatrix says,” she added, as an afterthought. “The events from this afternoon have obviously put her on edge.”

Draco nodded, although he couldn’t help but feel a bit unnerved.

He sure had chosen a shitty moment to start acting on his newly found sense of morality …

.

* * *

.

**MAY 1998**

Draco was sandwiched between his parents on a wooden bench inside the Great Hall.

The war was over.

Harry Potter had defeated the Dark Lord for good this time—there was a corpse in an alcove outside the Hall’s double doors to prove it.

For the first time in a long time, his stomach wasn’t tied in knots and he felt an overwhelming sense of safety—yet, he had to fight back tears all the same.

Tears of happiness. 

Tears of relief.

Tears of anger that he’d lost years of his life to a cause he no longer believed in.

He was a fucking mess! 

He offhandedly wondered how he used to keep such a tight lid on this array of emotions, and successfully hide them from the rest of the world. Even though he could use the battle as an excuse, if too many people noticed him cracking, his tough, stoic façade would be seen for the farce it was. 

But, then, maybe that would be for the best. 

Turn a new leaf and all that.

Draco looked at his mother next to him. Ever since they were reunited amid the chaos of battle, she hadn’t allowed him to move more than a few inches away from her. Currently, she was clinging so tightly to his arm, he wondered if she thought someone was going to hit him with a levitation charm and cause him to float away.

On a normal day, he would have been annoyed to be receiving this type of attention in public, but today was far from _normal_ and he was comforted by her proximity. He could tell by the way her voice wavered when she had found him that she had been worried—he didn’t blame her.

People had died. 

People he knew.

Hell, he had watched it happen!

He was intimately aware that it could have just as easily been him. 

His lip had been split by an invisible assailant—something his mother had fixed right after they’d reunited—but other than that, he had no physical scars to speak of. He had managed to stay alive, and the additional burden he’d felt from being a Death Eater was finally gone from his shoulders. He knew he’d have to answer for his participation with the group, but knowing that the mark on his left arm would never burn again was a great comfort.

He looked at his father, sitting on his other side. He had been such a proud Death Eater and Voldemort supporter, and now he was a ghost—pale and grey, with blank eyes staring at the floor in front of him. He was a wisp of a man, certainly not the strong and authoritative presence had had always been throughout Draco’s life, and, for that, he felt sad. Draco wondered if his father felt relief that it was over, too, or if he would miss the Dark Mark calling him to another mission. He supposed that there would be plenty of time to talk about it.

His mother had told him that, instead of fighting in the battle, their only concern had been to locate him … So, unlike the rest of the Death Eaters, they hadn’t felt the need to flee when the Dark Lord had fallen. Strategically—they were Slytherins through and through—they had defected at the last possible moment, when the war was all but finished and it was obvious that their original side would lose. He knew that many in the wizarding world would question their loyalties and call them opportunistic—it certainly wasn’t far from the truth—but he also knew that they had played a small role in helping Harry Potter to be triumphant. Hopefully, the Ministry would look kindly on that and they could all avoid time in Azkaban.

Draco looked around at the other stunned and dirty faces in the crowd.

He’d known for a while that he didn’t truly belong with the Death Eaters, and he had the nagging feeling that he didn’t belong with these wizards in the Great Hall, either. No one was coming over to see if he was okay or to shake his hand for surviving as part of the opposing side. In fact, most people that passed his little family trio paid them no mind at all—and those that did looked perplexed at best (and angry at worst).

His involvement in the war had humbled him, he realized, and he felt low—lower than he’d ever felt in his entire life—but at least he didn’t feel physically ill anymore, and things could go back to normal.

The way they were before the Dark Lord had returned.

But would _he_ be normal? 

Would he be able to go back to the way he was before … _Everything?_

To some extent he was the same person—he’d always be an arrogant prat who had grown up under privileged conditions—but he could see beyond his own experience now. He could see that grey area between right and wrong, good and bad, and he had come to understand that it complicated his world view more than he liked to admit.

Maybe pureblood superiority was an antiquated notion.

Maybe half-bloods and blood traitors weren’t as bad as he’d been raised to believe.

Maybe mudbloods could be proper wizards.

_Or maybe he was just defective._

He smirked at the thought.


End file.
